Sweet Dreams
by Spikesgirl58
Summary: It had been a long time since Illya Kuryakin had one of 'these' kinds of dreams N/I


I can't remember the last time I had a wet dream. Despite what some people think, I do have an active sex life, I just don't talk about it as much as other people do, preferring to let people guess. If they have nothing better to do with their time, then that's their problem, not mine.

My dream came in the form of my partner, who for one reason or another ended up in my arms, tormenting me in all the right ways. I thrashed in his arms, fighting to break free, fighting to stay right there, caught on a pinnacle of desire and raw, flagrant need. When he lowered his mouth down onto my penis, I couldn't stand it anymore and cried out as I came.

It took me a full minute to realize I was alone in bed with a tangle of bed sheets and sopping pajama bottoms clinging to me in a very uncomfortable fashion.

"Illya?" I heard Napoleon's voice a moment before he stuck his head through the door that separated the bedroom from the other room of the suite we had had the fortune to grab for the night. "I heard you cry out. Bad dream?"

"Nightmare or close enough," I allowed and let my head drop back to the pillow. Truly it had been that. How could being in love with your partner not be a nightmare? I mean it's not like it's unheard of in the annals of time and certainly not unusual in our business, but things like this don't happen to me. It's not something I permitted myself

For a man to be in a relationship with a woman is one thing. It's dangerous, but accepted. For a man to be in a relationship with another man is opening up both parties to a host of issues such as blackmail. For a partner to be in love with his partner, now we're talking serious danger for both men. Not from blackmail alone, but from the sheer depths that our enemy would use our relationship against us. It is announcing to the world that we are each other's Achilles' heel and that doesn't bode well for either party involved. For Napoleon's protection as well as my own, I had to keep my emotions under check. THRUSH already used each of us as bait for one another. There was no need to add fuel to that fire.

"You need to talk about it?" Napoleon's frame was backlit. It gave him a look of power and sheer masculinity.

"No, I've already forgotten most of it. I think just a shower…" I sat up and looked hopefully towards the bathroom door and he nodded.

"Good enough. If you do need a sympathetic ear, let me know."

"Thanks."

I waited until he left the doorway and grabbed a robe, shouldering into it as I headed for the sanctuary of the bathroom. It wasn't until I was safely inside that I realized I'd grabbed his robe instead of mine and his scent enveloped me. Flaccid to rock hard in twenty seconds – it had to be a record of some sort, although I will confess to not knowing exactly where you'd look up such a thing.

I hung the robe on the door hook and peeled off my pajama bottoms, wadding them up. I'd have to sleep in my shorts for the rest of the assignment, but it wouldn't be the first time. With any luck, this would be the mission when THRUSH surprised us in the middle of the night. If I didn't have bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

After taking a record long, cold shower, I was drying off when there was a tap on the door. "Illya? Have you seen my…?"

"…robe? Yes, I grabbed it by mistake." He opened the door as I snatched up a towel and wrapped it hastily around my waist. Normally, neither of us is bothered by the other's nudity, but tonight I couldn't take the chance. If he noticed, he didn't let on and I said a silent prayer to a god I didn't believe in that Napoleon would just leave. "It's on the back of the door. Sorry."

"No problems." He studied me for a moment in that calculating way he has, slow and measured as if knowing there was something off, but not quite able to put his finger on it. Then he withdrew and I wondered what sacrifices, if any, this god required for services rendered.

And apparently I failed in my repayment to that god for a month later, I found myself stuck in a hotel room, with one bed, a broken fan, and a libido that was driving me to drink. And this was causing a problem. A lifetime of drinking had given me a very high tolerance for it and more than one man failed trying to drink me under the table. Tonight I was the man trying to do out drink myself and I wasn't having much success.

Napoleon finally gave up on rousing me from my brooding and left. I was sure he was happily engaged with some lovely senorita and they were half way to Happy Town by now.

I finally gave up on the cheap whiskey and flopped onto the bed. I'd already stripped down to my underwear in a failed attempt to cool off. I hated the heat. With the cold you could always put more clothes on, but with the heat, once you got down to skin, you were pretty much at the end of the road.

So I lay there, staring up at a water-stained ceiling, thinking how much different this room was from the one we'd been in just a few weeks earlier. Comfortable beds, spotless facilities, air conditioning, it all seemed a dream now. I felt sweat trickle off me and hoped that Napoleon would find other accommodations for the night. With his luck, he'd end up sleeping with the one woman in town who had central air.

It took awhile, but I finally managed to drift off to sleep, only to be pestered by that damned dream again. Napoleon's hands were on me, feeling so cool they raised goose bumps wherever they trailed. It felt so wonderful to be able to relax and to not worry, to be able to trust. I knew instinctively with Napoleon it would be good, it would be sweet, and it would be exactly what I needed.

The dream was so vivid, as dreams often are, that I could feel his breath, hear his softly murmured words, then I suddenly realized I was not asleep, that I had passed the moment that separates sleeping from wakefulness. And there was someone pressing against me, someone my brain told me was indeed my partner.

"Napol…?" I started, but he shushed me first verbally and then with his mouth. Part of my mind was screaming that this was such a bad idea and another part was warning the first that it had a gun and knew how to use it.

I must have conveyed my conflict somehow because I heard Napoleon's voice, soft and velvety, in my ear. "Tomorrow, _amante_, tomorrow we'll talk how and why and what. For tonight, just feel."

_Amante? Lover? That was surprisingly pleasant._ And as I so often did with my headstrong partner, I let him take the lead and I followed in his wake.

In spite of all attempts otherwise, Napoleon's hands were rough, his calluses catching on the material of my tee-shirt as he pulled it off me. Then they were on me and my body surged at the sensation. It wasn't the first time Napoleon had touched me. He was surprisingly tactile for an American. Most of the ones I'd met before him had a very distinct sense of personal space. Not Napoleon; almost from Day One, I was aware of his need to touch and be touched. So much so that I now took advantage of that need and let my hands roam from his shoulders down his back to his ass and back, sensing, feeling the tight muscles corded beneath my hands as he conducted his own explorations.

His mouth made it back up to mine and I tasted tequila, salsa and something else, something I'd never tasted before… something definitely Napoleon. It was alien and strange and I loved it. I sucked at his tongue, eager to take as much of him away with me as possible.

His hands had dipped lower, and one insinuated itself between our sweat-slicked bodies and wrapped itself around our penises, trapping them together. The grip was firm, but not crushing, just exactly perfect, and our bodies moved with a rhythm that we are never taught and yet know.

It was so good that when Napoleon suddenly moved away from me, I whined, a noise I didn't even know I could make, but then his mouth was on me and all but the very basics of noises were ripped away.

One hand held me down, keeping me from choking him as I attempted to thrust, then the other hand moved around and beneath me. First one, than another finger breached me and I moaned, my hands clawing desperately at the sheets in a futile effort for control.

Then he hummed and it was game over. I moaned, arched my back and climaxed.

My heart was pounding in an effort to keep from passing out and I gulped down deep breaths of oxygen, feeling the need for it burning through my lungs. And I could tell by the look in Napoleon's eyes that he wasn't finished. Well, that and the solid mass of his penis against me.

Without him saying a word, I knew what he wanted and wadded up a pillow to stuff it beneath my back. He smiled his delight and positioned himself eagerly. I knew he was right on the edge himself, but I trusted him to keep control.

The problem was, he wasn't the one lacking it. The moment I felt the tip of his penis enter me, I pushed back, eager, hungry to feel him in me. Yes, I would later regret that move, but at that point in time, it was what I wanted and I wasn't about to start denying myself now. Even so, I couldn't keep the pain from my reaction and he held me still, in spite of my efforts to move, until gradually I relaxed. Only then did he start moving, slowly, languidly, like he had all the time in the world. I'm glad one of us did because my penis was screaming for relief in a way that belied its climax of just a minute earlier.

Instinctively I knew this was going to be the climax by which all others would forever be measured. It was hard and soul wrenching and wonderful. I ached in muscles that I didn't even know existed; I felt wrung from the inside out. I was sweaty, sticky, and sated. I saw the same look in my partner's face, saw it reflected in his eyes. I felt like my heart was going to burst from the emotion I felt for this man and yet, at the same time, there was that little voice whispering that we had just made the biggest mistake of our lives.

"This was wrong, Napoleon." I whispered, not trusting my voice enough to speak any louder.

"How can you say that?"

"If THRUSH…"

"What? Finds out that we care for one another? Old news, _amante_, they already know it. If they find out we're lovers, well, I seriously suspect we are not the first or the last partners to follow that path."

"Waverly?"

"Has suspected it for years. Haven' t you ever watched him watching us? You can see it in his eyes." He cupped my cheek and rested his head against mine. "Illya, we may die today or tomorrow. The only thing that is a probability is that we won't live to be old men. If I have to die tomorrow, let me die knowing you love me as much as I love you. Anything else is death already."

I realized he was right. I would have rather die at that moment in his arms than live the rest of my life without feeling them around me. We didn't get much sleep that night and when the day broke the next morning, hot and angry, it was as if a blanket of contentment and peace had settled around us. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was living the dream. No, not living… loving, loving the dream.


End file.
